If you find yourself in London for a whirlwind 24 hours, there’s an inevitable question that must be asked, usually by a harried tourist guide or a fellow traveller of questionable sartorial choices. The question is this: “Will you visit Buckingham Palace?” If you are like me, and your relationship with royal residences hovers somewhere between bemused indifference and vague curiosity, you might hesitate. In fact, you might counter the question with another one: “Or would I rather visit the Buckingham Arms?”

The Buckingham Arms, for those of you not familiar with the royal family's less ceremonial proclivities, is a pub located on Petty France Road, a charming street whose name conjures up visions of diminutive Frenchmen in berets, though the street is disappointingly devoid of such eccentricities. However, the Buckingham Arms more than makes up for it by offering a different kind of monarchy—one that serves pints of ale instead of pomp and circumstance. And frankly, during a whirlwind 24 hours in London, I’d argue that this is the more rewarding Buckingham of the two. Spoiler alert: I have been visiting this pub once or twice a year since 1985.

Between Two Buckinghams: My journey began, as so many of my British adventures do, with a sense of mild confusion exacerbated by an uncomfortable seat in coach and the fact that I had, yet again, vastly underestimated how unpleasant Heathrow can be at 2 p.m. It’s remarkable how a place can be both oppressively chaotic and lethargically slow at the same time. After navigating the tangle of customs and questioning my life choices at the signs for the tube or the Heathrow Express, I uncritically chose the tube to be one with the people and headed for central London and Victoria Station.

The passenger from Scotland sitting next to me asked if I was planning on visiting Buckingham Palace. I nodded noncommittally, feeling an odd sense of obligation as if I might be hauled off to the Tower for treason if I didn’t. But in the back of my mind, I knew where my real loyalty lay. “Buckingham Arms,” I muttered to myself as the train went clickily clack. “That’s where the real magic happens.”

The Buckingham Arms pub is a refuge of sorts—particularly if you’ve just spent a good hour dodging panhandlers on the tube or selfie sticks absolutely everywhere else. It’s a bit like arriving at the home of an old friend who still bothers to keep their pub quiz trophy collection on the mantle but insists they’re not showing off. As I stepped inside, I was immediately greeted by that warm, yeasty scent of British pub fare, the kind that makes you wonder if you should just skip the menu and ask for whatever's frying at the back.

I was seated promptly, though not without that brief moment of terror in which I was unsure whether I should wait for a table or aggressively claim one myself. You know, that typical British pub dilemma where you're unsure if queuing protocol applies to furniture. But soon, I found myself nestled comfortably at a table across from the bar, the type of table and stools that havent been updated since before Thatcher.

And now, the highlight: my three-course meal. The first course was, of course, a Scotch egg. For those unfamiliar, this is a culinary masterpiece of questionable origin, consisting of a hard-boiled egg wrapped in sausage meat, coated in breadcrumbs, and then deep-fried. It’s a dish that defies logic and anatomy but, much like the British monarchy, has somehow persisted through the ages. The Buckingham Arms’ version was impeccable—crispy on the outside, gooey in the middle, and utterly confusing to anyone trying to make sense of how this became a national dish. But my stomach, unconcerned with such existential questions, welcomed it eagerly.

Next came the main course: fish and chips with mushy peas and curry sauce. There is something magical about British fish and chips—the way the fish crumbles beneath a thin layer of batter, the chips that are perfectly engineered to absorb vinegar without turning into soggy sadness. But it’s the mushy peas that truly steal the show. They are, for lack of a better description, green goop. But this goop, inexplicably, adds a dimension to the dish that is nothing short of culinary alchemy. As for the curry sauce—well, there’s really no reason for it to be here, except that the British have an unholy fascination with curry, and frankly, I’m mad about it. I slathered that shit on everything.

Finally, for dessert, the English trifle. Now, a trifle is one of those desserts that, when described, sounds like a prank. Sponge cake, custard, whipped cream, and some form of alcohol are all thrown together in what can only be described as reckless abandon. But in practice, it works, much in the way that throwing a bunch of royal family members onto a balcony for a photograph works—chaotic but endearing. It was light, airy, and just boozy enough to make me feel like I was being rebellious, even though I was just eating pudding.

The Barman Diaries. Now, here’s the thing about pubs—they aren’t just about the food and drink. They are about the people who pour those drinks and the people who order them. The barmen at the Buckingham Arms are, I believe, part of some sort of unofficial diplomacy corps, sent here not just to pull pints but to engage in the kind of banter that makes you feel like you’re part of a secret club. The first barman I spoke to was from Brazil, and he explained, in between expertly pouring pints, that he had come to London for the same reason most people do—an inexplicable combination of whimsy, opportunity and post-secondary education. His journey had started in Rio, where the heat is constant and the beer is cold, and somehow led him here, to a pub within arm’s reach of the King’s front yard. He told me that, much to his surprise, he had grown fond of the London weather. “It makes you appreciate when the sun does come out,” he said with a wry smile. This statement made me suspicious, but then again, I currently live in a country where the sun makes a daily overwhelming appearance whether we like it or not.

The other barman hailed from Poland, and we quickly bonded over the good things about Britain. Mostly, as long as you work hard and pay your way, you are left alone to enjoy this country. “You know,” he said, leaning against the bar in that way barmen do when they’re about to drop a truth bomb, “Polish food is meant to keep you warm in winter. British food is meant to make you think of winter, even in summer.” I couldn’t argue with that. After a few more pints and an ill-advised but successful attempt at pouring my own beer (a task which is far more complicated than it looks when done under the watchful gaze of the aforementioned barmen), it was time to leave the Buckingham Arms. I was given a gracious farewell, complete with a photo of me behind the bar, standing at the draft taps and grinning like an idiot. At that moment, I felt like I had become part of the establishment—an honorary member of this noble institution where kings and queens might pull a pint, but the real royalty are the ones on the other side of the bar, waiting to drink it.

Buckingham Palace by Night. Now, as much as I had enjoyed my time at the Arms, I couldn’t avoid the inevitable. I had to visit the other Buckingham—the one with the much larger, albeit less intimate, front yard. So off I went into the night, feeling full, slightly tipsy, and ready to pay my respects to Buckingham Palace. Arriving at the Palace after dark is a bit like arriving at a party long after the hosts have gone to bed. The lights were on, sure, but no one was home. Or rather, they were home, but they were decidedly not coming to the door to say hello. The gates loomed before me, majestic and completely uninterested in my presence. I took a few photos, mostly to prove that I had been there, and admired the palace’s regal façade. It was impressive, I suppose, but I couldn’t help but feel that it lacked the warmth of the Buckingham Arms. I mean, could you get a Scotch egg here? Unlikely.

The following morning, after a brief (delicious and, frankly, unnecessary) breakfast at the English Rose Cafe near my hotel—who needs to eat again after that meal at the Arms?—I returned to Buckingham Palace to take some daylight photos. There was a crowd already gathered as if the King himself might appear at any moment to wave benevolently and toss out crumpets to the masses. Of course, Camilla was not going to do any such thing, nor was King Charles, who, at that point, was presumably indoors, adjusting his tie and wondering why people still gathered at his house like it was some sort of tourist attraction. Oh, wait.

As I snapped a few more obligatory photos, I couldn’t help but compare the two Buckinghams. Buckingham Palace is grand, no doubt about it. But it’s also distant, imposing, and—dare I say it—a little boring. The Buckingham Arms, on the other hand, is where life happens. It’s where you can sit down with a pint and talk to people who have stories to tell, even if those stories are about the proper way to serve curry sauce with chips. It’s where you can accidentally get tipsy on an overzealous trifle or tiramisu and not feel guilty about it because, well, you’re on holiday, aren’t you?

It was one of those rare mornings in London where the sun wasn’t so much shining as it was reluctantly making an appearance, like an awkward guest at a party who keeps checking their watch and edging toward the door. I decided to make the most of it by taking a stroll through St. James’s Park, which is as quintessentially British as it gets. The park is a leafy oasis nestled between Buckingham Palace and Whitehall, where tourists, locals, and swans alike all go about their day with varying degrees of enthusiasm.

Now, let me be clear about something: Londoners don’t do mornings well. I suspect that if they could negotiate with the Earth to tilt its axis just a little further so that daylight didn’t start until noon, they’d do it in a heartbeat. So, as I wandered into the park, it was still relatively quiet with true Londoners, save for the occasional jogger who was clearly powered by a mixture of spite and caffeine.

The pond in the middle of the park is a sight to behold—at least if you’re into waterfowl, which, after a night at the Buckingham Arms, I had decided I most definitely was. The swans glide across the surface like minor royalty on a budget holiday, all serene and composed, occasionally deigning to acknowledge the existence of the lesser species around them (which, in their view, is everyone else). The pelicans, on the other hand, seem to have wandered in from some far more exotic locale and, like many tourists in London, appear slightly baffled by the whole situation. They spend their days standing around the edge of the pond, looking vaguely menacing as if they’re waiting for someone to challenge their right to be here, but no one dares because, well, pelicans are a bit intimidating when you get right down to it.

As I continued my walk, I couldn’t help but notice the first signs of what I call “The Throng of Witless Drones.” For those unfamiliar with this phenomenon, allow me to explain: This is the term I’ve coined for large groups of tourists who follow their tour guide with all the enthusiasm of people waiting to have their teeth pulled. The guide usually waves some bright, unmistakable object in the air—most commonly a yellow umbrella—like a Pied Piper leading a pack of travel-weary, borderline unconscious individuals from one landmark to the next. As I observed one such group trudging along the park’s pathways, I couldn’t help but feel a bit sorry for them. These poor souls had clearly been rounded up from their cruise ship in Southampton and deposited in the city for a day of “enforced enjoyment.” You know the type—people who signed up for a cruise because they once saw an ad that featured people laughing on a deck while holding tropical cocktails, only to discover that, in reality, they were trapped on a floating shopping mall for the duration of their holiday. Now, they were being herded through London in the same way they’d been herded onto the boat, all while desperately clutching their “Shore Excursion” passes, hoping that by the end of the tour they’d at least be able to say they’d seen a pigeon.

The leader of this particular throng of drones was an impressively chipper British woman who seemed to be under the delusion that her charges were having the time of their lives. Perhaps her inability to speak Mandarin may have been an issue. Regardless, she waved her yellow umbrella with an alarming amount of zeal as she spoke into her headset microphone, sharing tidbits of information that no one could actually hear because the headset was too close to her mouth, causing every word to sound like an angry blender on the fritz (and not in Mandarin).

Behind her, the cruise passengers followed with the kind of collective resignation typically reserved for jury duty. You could tell that they’d all been crammed together on the same ship for days, and at this point, they despised each other with a passion usually reserved for televised sports rivalries. I trust the line to buy an overpriced snow globe or a t-shirt that says, “I Heart [Insert City Here] is just slightly less than a mile long.”

I watched one swan in particular as it glided past a group of tourists who were busy trying to take selfies with it. The swan, naturally, couldn’t have cared less. It turned its head slightly, giving them just enough acknowledgment to make them think they were worthy of its time, before continuing on its way, leaving a trail of ripples in the water that the tourists were apparently trying to photograph as well, with predictably terrible results. I like to imagine that swans have a sort of superiority complex when it comes to humans. I mean, wouldn’t you, if you could float around all day without having to worry about things like mortgages or global warming or whether or not your cruise ship was going to run out of shrimp cocktail?

The pelicans, on the other hand, are a different breed entirely. They don’t so much glide as they do loiter, standing around like a bunch of retired gangsters who’ve just discovered the concept of birdwatching. They strut along the edge of the pond, eyeing the tourists with a mixture of boredom and suspicion, occasionally flapping their wings in a half-hearted attempt to look busy. I could almost hear them muttering to each other in thick, east-end Kray Brother-like Cockney accents.

“Hey, Reg,” one pelican would say to another. “You see that guy over there with the camera? Do you think he’s gonna buy us a pint “Nah,” Reg would reply, “he looks like one of those tea totalling gluten-free types. Ain’t no ale coming our way today, Ronnie.” And then they’d shuffle off, leaving the tourists to puzzle over why the pelicans were so utterly uninterested in posing for photos.

After a while, I decided to continue my stroll through the park and head toward Horse Guards Parade. This is one of those places in London that feels a bit like it’s been transported from another era—specifically, an era when standing around in full military regalia for hours on end seemed like a reasonable way to pass the time. The guards, of course, are a tourist attraction in and of themselves, largely because they’ve been trained to completely ignore the idiocy happening around them.

By the time I arrived, the sun had decided it was done for the day, and the clouds were rolling in, threatening rain. The guards stood there, stoic as ever, while tourists tried to make them smile, laugh, or even blink—anything to break their composure. I stood off to the side, observing the spectacle and silently wondering why anyone would choose to spend their holiday like this when they could be sitting in a pub with a pint and a plate of fish and chips.

And that’s when it hit me: There are two kinds of Buckinghams in this world. There’s Buckingham Palace—the grand, imposing symbol of British royalty, where people come to gawk and take photos and convince themselves they’re having the time of their lives. And then there’s the Buckingham Arms—a humble pub where you can sit down with a pint, chat with people who have real stories to tell, and feel like you’ve actually experienced a slice of life in London.

If you ask me, the choice is obvious. After all, why waste your time being herded around London like a sheep when you could be at the pub, raising a glass to the real royals of the city—the barmen and the swans who know exactly how to enjoy their day? So, which Buckingham would I rather visit? Well, let’s just say that the next time I find myself in London, I won’t be heading to the Palace. I’ll be at the Arms, sipping on a pint of bitter!

I hope you have enjoyed this post. If you have a moment, I encourage you to leave your thoughts in the box after the last image at the bottom of the page. I love reading your comments. The images in this post were taken with the Leica Q3 and the Leica SL3.

Until next time, live well!

M.